


Industry Standard

by dodecahedrons



Category: South Park
Genre: Future AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodecahedrons/pseuds/dodecahedrons
Summary: The year is 2064. Your worth as a person is no longer determined by your character or your intelligence, but rather by your social standing and your star quality. Schools and the traditional family unit have been mostly abandoned, and training camps for the next money-making entertainer are accepting kids as young as three or four years old for rudimentary acting classes.The lower your social or economic standing, however, the less of a chance you’ll have at stardom. The world is focused on who can make the flashiest TV show, or who can design the fanciest 4D movie, or anything extravagant. Sadly, you’re no longer in the world of your parents and grandparents where any asshole with a webcam could become internet famous if they played their cards right. No one cared that some trailer trash could sing his heart out and play the piano debatably better than Mozart. If your likeness wasn’t owned by a company, you would be sent to the most sparsely visited pages of Google and its competitors.Of course, for Kenny McCormick, this meant he would more than likely end up succumbing to an early grave due to lack of work and subsequent lack of money, resources, and housing by the age of 21.





	1. Chapter 1

The act of filling out an application was nothing more than a formality. A lot of the current generation didn’t even have more than a basic level of knowledge or experience with using a pen, let alone writing in their respective language. Typing was much simpler, and really, unless you were being trained to be an artist or designer, the skill of holding a pen was useless to you.

Still, forms were offered at talent agencies. Some places used it as a way to assess your surface level worth as an applicant for certain classes or positions. Others, however, offered it for a false sense of self-worth. Sure, your wrist is scanned upon checking in to the building, and the guard reads your information back to you to ensure it actually is you. Regardless of this, however, writing down your personal information from memory gave you a vague sense of autonomy. For that brief moment, your identity was your own, uncirculated, unknown by the receptionist who gave you the pen that hardly worked despite its lack of use.

Usually, using the knowledge that writing was a lost art form, you could tell the class of an applicant. A lot of richer kids never see pens in their life outside of museums and history books. As you climb down the economic ladder, the ability to physically transcribe thoughts and feelings grew. Maybe that’s why a lot of artists came from the poorest parts of their hometowns. After all, decades and centuries can pass, but the aesthetic of a struggling artist never becomes old.

The training center in the heart of South Park, Colorado was busy as usual. As a certain blonde haired man found himself filling out the fifth physical form of the day, more than 5 dozen people had come through and not even acknowledged the offer to fill out their own personal information. Some of the people passing through, he recognized immediately. Bebe Stevens, the girl who spilled mashed potatoes on him every Tuesday in their shared second year of acting classes, took the cake for being the most disruptive bystander he’d had the misfortune of hearing that afternoon. 

“No! I do  _ not  _ want to fill out a form!” she shouted, slamming perfectly soft palms onto the fake granite countertop of the receptionist desk. Rather than showing emotion at this outburst, the receptionist simply tucked away the clipboard she’d been holding and moved on with her memorized script. The outburst had been enough to silence the waiting area, and was one of the final straws for the blonde man’s ability to concentrate in such an otherwise noisy room. Quietly, he gathered the forms he’d already filled out in full and queued in line behind faces he couldn’t seem to place. Thankfully, despite how talkative the room was, only a select few people were actually in line. Bebe was at the front, and behind her were two average looking men who seemed to be in their mid 20’s. The one in front of the blonde man was clutching a form at such an angle that anyone behind him could catch a glimpse at his handwriting. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. It was perfectly legible enough for anyone to process.

The man in front of him was going for acting. Of course he was. Everyone and their catdroid was going for acting. As the line slowly moved forward, and as wrists were scanned and formality forms were filed, the man found his own thoughts slowly beginning to race with overthinking and insecurity at his own vocation choices. Everyone was registering to be considered for the next overly-simplified internet show, but here he was, applying for behind-the-scenes jobs. Jobs that no one who wanted to be considered an A-list celebrity would ever choose in their lifetime. Jobs that make your permanent record look like the script for a late 2010’s comedy movie.

Finally, it was his turn in the queue. A robotic announcement came over a speaker behind the receptionist desk, feeding basic information about him to the woman behind the glass. “McCormick?” she inquired, voice painfully evident of rigorous practice for customer satisfaction-based speech habits. He nodded, holding out his wrist toward the scanner present at the right of the receptionist’s window. A tell-tale beep meant that his information was, once again, registered.

“I’m here to file for training,” he stated simply, placing his forms on the desk and sliding them under the thin gap in the window. The receptionist eyeballed the smooth strokes of the writing on the forms before giving the blonde an incredulous look over her fake spectacles.

“Sir, you are aware that we are over-booked for acting applicants, correct?” she inquired. 

“No no, I’m not applying to be an actor,” he responded quickly. “I’m looking for more… hidden jobs. If you’ll read the forms you’ll see that-”

“If you want to apply to be an understudy or anything of the like, you need to come back on the dates specified on the door,” the receptionist interrupted. 

“I’m not trying to join the acting field, ma’am,” he stammered. “Nothing in that industry at all. If you’d just read the forms-”

“What economic level are you from, McCormick?” she interrupted once again. “Because your handwriting is so much neater than anyone I’ve seen in the past few days that I find it hard to believe you belong here at all.”

He felt his heart drop to his stomach, but he wasn’t expecting anything else from the interaction. The receptionist knew what his background was. Even if the way she asked the question didn’t give that simple factoid away, the time he’d put into filling out his forms did. Despite the fact that well filled out forms were a surefire giveaway that you were of low socioeconomic standing, he still felt the impulsive need to fill them out to the best of his ability. If no one would sign him for anything, he’d at least get noticed for his skill in the lost art of handwriting.

He gave himself a moment, taking a deep breath in an attempt to hold off the anger boiling inside his chest. Once he felt like he could function normally, if only for a few moments, he spoke up. His voice was calm and calculated, but not sincere. Acting classes, despite how useless they were for the fields he wanted to pursue, sure helped in his social interactions.

“Ma’am, I’m trying to train to become part of the musical field,” he said slowly, trying to piece together his racing thoughts. The woman behind the counter stared at him incredulously, her artificially purple eyes giving no sign of human emotion. Rather than respond to him, she simply gave the forms in her hand a final glance before grunting and pushing her chair away from her desk. 

Kenny knew better than to get snippy with receptionists. Sure, they were the least talented of anyone in the room at any given time, but they were the only gateway to producers and trainers. Without them, your average Joe Schmoe stood no chance against media giants. So instead of pointing out how she had less talent in that moment than he had on his first day of being alive, he held his tongue and watched her reach under her desk with his forms in hand. He didn’t need to hear the mechanical whirring of a shredder to know what she was doing, he just knew from experience at this point. 

“Alright sir, I’ll have my supervisor review your profile at his earliest convenience,” she said, voice devoid of any discernible emotion. “You will be notified if you’re chosen.”

That was the unspoken punctuation to this interaction. Nothing more could be said without damaging your already slim chances after that. Besides, what else could he say? ‘I want to speak with your supervisor right this instant!’ would be satisfactory to say, but demands like that died off well before the 2030s. Demanding for a supervisor nowadays was a surefire way of getting your profile completely erased from the central database, forcing you to spend what little money you have to your name to re-establish yourself. Beyond that, politeness classes were mandatory for anyone with infractions like this. How else can they force subservience, if not by policing the tone and words of average people?

Wordlessly, he made his way out of the line of similarly disadvantaged applicants and found his way out of the building. As he left, he scanned his wrist to put a note on his record that he left the training center for the umpteenth time that week, unsuccessful once again.

He took a right upon leaving the facility, heading for the slums of South Park. Being unsigned meant he had to spend another day living off of his measly government allowance. For the month, he only had about $75 left. $75 out of the $500 he’d been given just two weeks prior.

He sighed, walking down the metal-plated sidewalks, inhaling the industrial air around him. He’d be damned if he let another talent agent gloss over him again. He’d be damned if he let another talent agent even look at him again.

He was about to go earn more money and get more recognition in one night than the South Park training center could promise him for a week, even if it cost him his freedom.


	2. Chapter 2

The air pulsed with chaotic rhythms coming from every direction. The air was hot, and the entire building smelled of body odor and cheap colognes and perfumes. Still, it wasn’t the chemically treated air every other building and city street was pumped full of, making every waking moment seem like a visit to the emergency room. Nothing in the general vicinity was processed or treated by any means. Everything surrounding the man felt real. Natural. Organic. Like something you’d see in a teenage chick flick from the early to mid 2000s.

No one could have a verbal conversation over the music blaring in the club. No one was there for conversation, really, but the few that were found themselves using a third party chat program unmonitored by the central government to discuss amongst themselves through emojis and text. Eyes flickered with black market implants that allowed them to type on holographic screens with only their sight, flashing as different buttons were registered with every slight glance they took.

Kenny pushed his way through the crowd of people, trying to find a small area he’d only heard rumors of. Despite the popularity of this club, only a select few knew of the secret scouting that happened some nights. Scouting for rebel music groups that, despite being illegal, were loved by everyone around the world. All the times he’d been to this club, he’d never been able to find it. But he had a good feeling that night.

At least, he tried to convince himself he had a good feeling.

On days where looking for a talent agency to sign him went awry, he found solace in rebel clubs. No one liked how the world had progressed. Why would they? You were competing for the right to live. The people having their 15 minutes of fame liked to make it seem like a high, luxurious lifestyle, but everyone knew the truth. Everyone was hitting the metaphorical sidewalk every waking moment to sign their soul away to the capitalistic devils that ran their world, but that’s just how life was. Of course opposition would stir in society. And as the time-old tradition happened, opposition leads to underground cultures and groups.

Thank fucking _God_ opposition stirred in society, in this case. Without South Park’s underground clubbing subculture, Kenny had no clue how he’d survive his miserable existence on the lowest end of the socioeconomic spectrum.

Pushing through the thick crowds of people proved to be a fruitless effort once again, he came to realize. Instead of finding any suspiciously welcoming door or person or whatever, he found himself again at a hacked vending machine he knew all too well. Rather than selling government certified fruit and healthy drinks, this machine sold black market drugs. Nothing like the drugs of old, no. You would be hard pressed to find anyone shooting up or smoking anything. It was too risky, after all. Instead, these drugs changed your emotions for a while, without the telltale effects of being high.

Changing your emotions had a high price, though. Almost $50 per patch. Kenny hesitantly looked at the listings, watching the old lights flicker behind hastily scribbled labels on the machine. Was happiness for the night really worth most of his remaining money for the month…?

Before he could answer this question to himself, he sensed the presence of another potential client of the vending machine in his personal bubble.

“Kinda fucked they charge so much for this,” Kenny shouted over the pulsing music. He knew speaking was a lost chance in the club, but it was all he could do to make himself feel less awkward in this circumstance. Rather than respond, the mysterious figure behind him simply stepped forward and flicked his wrist to be in sight of the vending machine’s scanner. It blipped to life, giving them the ability to buy whatever emotion they so chose.

Kenny watched as this figure hovered their finger over one option before slowly careening it over to another. He knew the feeling this person was experiencing all too well. In a club like this, it was hard to choose between buying the feeling of happiness or horniness. After all, people came here to fuck or get fucked up. It was the only way to cope with the way life was. Finally, though, the person made up their mind and selected happiness.

“I’d rather be starving than miserable,” the figure responded. This caught Kenny off guard, because he was sure that this person hadn’t actually acknowledged his presence. But here he was, actually having an interaction with someone that wasn’t about his horrible class ranking. The figure turned to face him, his hood falling to reveal messy black hair framing a pale, pierced face. Kenny took a breath to respond, but the mysterious man standing in front of him shook his head and flicked his eyes toward a dark corner. Rather than argue, Kenny found himself following the unspoken request to make his way to the secluded corner, followed closely by the man he’d just met at the vending machine.

Once they’d huddled themselves off into a corner, the man blinked twice. This brought up a holographic screen in front of him, making it obvious that this conversation was going to be involved enough that shouting over music wouldn’t be beneficial in the long run.

Unfortunately, Kenny was so piss poor he couldn’t interact with the hologram. The black market, while beneficial to everyone with any rebellious hobbies, was far too expensive for his trailer trash blood. He shot a nervous glance at the man next to him, but without looking his way, the man seemed to get the idea.

 

_ “I know you can’t type.” _

 

 _Great ,_ Kenny thought. _It’s that fucking obvious._

 

_“You’re here for something that isn’t drugs or sex. Luckily for you, I have it.”_

 

Naturally, this piqued Kenny’s interest. He’d come to this club for something most would be hard pressed to even pursue, after all. He nodded in agreement, despite the fact the man wasn’t paying a lick of attention to him. He watched the black haired man’s eyes flick around rapidly, typing a message at speeds quicker than most people he’d seen.

 

_“I have what you need to get what you want.”_

 

Either this was some fulfilled prayer he didn’t know he’d prayed for, or this person was fucking with him.

 

_“Meet me at the Villas, 3am sharp.”_

 

Before Kenny could even begin to think of a reply, the man stood and walked back into the crowd of dancing rebels. Kenny looked at the place where the man had just been seated, noticing something shiny in place of him. He leaned over, squinting at it’s fluorescent surface for a moment before realizing what it was.

Happiness.

He quietly took the patch between his slim fingers and peeled the back off of it, slapping it onto his neck and standing. Three in the morning was a few hours away. He might as well enjoy himself while he waited.

 

* * *

 

The Villas was a club in the slums of South Park. In the Alley - the club he’d been at earlier - you’d expect to find technology from the 30’s at the earliest. It wasn’t the most high tech place, but really, what rebel facility _could_ be? Newer tech was given by the government to facilities it deemed fit for operation. With newer tech, it wouldn’t even be a rebel club anymore.

But no, the Villas were a different breed of rebel club entirely. Nothing in there was from the past few decades. 80s, 90s, and early 2000s technology filled the building, as well as music from the surrounding time periods. The slums weren’t a place for culture. Culture checked itself out a few socioeconomic levels before the slums were even in sight. The slums got all of the leftovers that each era had to offer.

This didn’t bother Kenny, though. As a resident of the slums himself, he was fairly familiar with the Villas.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it felt like it was closer to 3 am than he’d figure was safe. It was an hour walk from the Alley to the Villas, and the Alley didn’t have any clocks in it. His head was pulsing with leftover rhythms from the club, and the overdose of Happiness he was on was fucking with his thoughts otherwise. His pace was quick, but his steps sloppy. He felt drunk on joy.

Walking from the heart of South Park to the slums gave sight to the gradient of quality that quickly degraded the longer you walked. Sleek, metallic city streets slowly faded into rusted metal, and eventually into concrete. The rough material scuffed the bottoms of Kenny’s shoes as he speedwalked to his destination, almost tripping over his own feet every few steps.

Finally, the sounds of 2000s music could be heard ever so slightly. He picked up his pace, walking up to the door of a house that, save for the music blaring from beneath it, seemed perfectly inconspicuous. Calloused knuckles pounded against the warped wood of the door in a rhythmic pattern only those who have practiced could ever attain. After a few moments, the door cracked open.

Heavy breathing could be heard through the crack in the door, and if you squinted, you could probably see an eye peeking back at you. A few moments passed before the door opened a bit more, giving Kenny just enough room to slip in before the door shut heavily behind him.

“God damn it, Kenny, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” a short, stout man grumbled. An e-cigarette sat, perched between his lips as he gave Kenny a disgruntled look. He took a sharp inhale, and Kenny watched as the “cherry” of the cigarette glowed a fake, bright red.

“Sorry to come on short notice, Eric,” Kenny chuckled, voice a bit too chipper. Eric side-eyed him, eyes narrowing as he took a slower drag off of the metal between his lips.

“You were at the Alley again, weren’t you?” the stout man inquired. Kenny rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug, lifting his hand and placing it over the area where he’d applied the patch hours prior.

“Maybe,” the blond replied.

“I can smell the middle class on your clothes,” Eric scowled. “Disgusting.”

Kenny shrugged again, not entirely interested in having a conversation about his choice of clubbing locations with someone he only barely tolerated. He needed to figure out what time it was. Something in his gut said he was late, or at least about to be. “Hey, what time is it?”

“Half passed fuck you.”

“Ha ha, real funny. I’m being serious, asshole.”

“You know damn well I don’t keep track of time.”

Kenny rolled his eyes, deciding to himself that tone conversation was over. He turned on his heel and headed toward the door to the basement, flipping the bird at Eric over his shoulder as he did so. As Eric began to shout at Kenny in a sort of faux-rage, the blond wrapped his hand around the worn doorknob. The rhythm of the music pulsed through the doorknob, filling his body with the beat of _Call Me Maybe_ as he pulled the door open and began to descend the creaky basement steps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if theres any better way to do like. text convos or the like, please let me knwo??


End file.
